I blink, snapping back to reality just as Dr. Spencer leans in closer. I’ve completely missed whatever he just said.
“Maybe slow down there, mate,” I say, nodding toward his empty glass as he plonks it back on the bar. “Don’t they need you to do doctor-y things tomorrow morning? Best save some of those hospital beds for actual sick people—not just your inevitable hangover.”
Wouldn’t want you fingering the wrong holes.
He flashes a smile, all confidence and charm. “Aww, worried about me? That’s sweet but trust me—I could do this job in my sleep.”
Before I can fire back with a remark about his alarming level of medical cockiness, the last orders bell rings.
“Right, then,” he purrs. “Shall we?”
I stand, and his hand finds the small of my back as we weave through the crowd.
Outside, the crisp night air hits us, fresh and sobering, but not too sobering, judging by the way Spencer leans closer.
“Fancy a nightcap back at mine?” he murmurs. “I live just off Primrose Hill.”
Primrose Hill? Clearly those junior doctors’ pay protests worked out nicely for him if he can afford London’s version of Beverly Hills. I bet his neighbor is Harry Styles.
“I’m off tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound responsible even as my pulse picks up speed. “So I’m not entirely against the idea. But don’t you have an 8 a.m. start?”
“I do,” he murmurs. “But I’d sleep much better with company.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, so going to yours is basically a public service? For the greater good of the NHS?”
He pretends to nod solemnly. “Exactly. Charitable work, really.”
I wriggle free of his grasp, brandishing my phone like it’s pepper spray. “Hold on, Doctor Feel-Good. I need to see some ID. My friend’s getting your details.”
The age-old ritual oftrying not to end up on a true-crime podcast while also trying to get laidbegins.
Spencer blinks, as if no one has ever questioned his credentials before. “I can show you my driver’s license?”
Cue the dramatic male pocket-pat-down routine. After a solid minute of searching every possible pocket three times, he produces his license and slides it over with a triumphant little flourish.
“That’ll do,” I mutter, snapping a photo for Lizzie. “Just making sure I’m not following Spencer the Ripper into a dark alley. Too many weirdos on dating apps these days.”
I flash him my sweetest, most innocent smile as I add, “Oh, and by the way, my brother just got out of prison. Like,veryrecently. Ten years for GBH. He’s super protective. Likes to check up on me with his prison workout buddy, Big Mike. You know, the one who bends iron bars with his teeth. So . . . not that anyone needs to worry or anything.”
Spencer laughs, but I notice the subtle shift in his posture—a cautious inch of distance creeping between us.
Amazing how quickly men sober up when you casually drop a fictional ex-con brother into the conversation.
Grinning, I grab his hand. “After you, Doc.”
CHAPTER 4
Daisy
Getting your kitty licked—or,if I’m going to be prim and proper about it, cunnilingus—when done right, is like a spiritual awakening for us ladies.
Somewhere out there, these gifted men exist. But they’re lost between the men who think the clitoris is near Wales and the ones who treat it like they’re trying to scrub red wine from their nan’s best rug.
Unfortunately, finding one in the wild is damn near impossible.
I glance down at the head thrashing between my thighs. The man’s tongue is flailing about like a garden hose on full blast.
I attempt some subtle course correction, nudging his head with my knee.
